


Birds

by Rusakko



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Birds, Dreamworld Adventures, Gen, Life in Saimaa, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-07-07 00:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rusakko/pseuds/Rusakko
Summary: In early spring, when winter is still doing its best to cling to the world, Tuuri waits for the birds.





	1. Chapter 1

In early spring, when winter is still doing its best to cling to the world, Tuuri waits for the birds.

It’s not that _all_ the birds fly away in the autumn. The sparrows stay despite the cold, and flit around the cowsheds and sheep pens, keeping an eye out for spilled oats and hayseeds. The great tits brave the weather, too. They start singing earlier in spring than any other bird, just a month or so after the winter solstice. Optimistic, even during the coldest weeks of the year. And then there are the magpies, with their handsome, glossy tails that Tuuri can’t help admiring, even though Onni has told her that their rough chatter is an omen of bad luck.

Then there are the chickens and ducks and geese that are always underfoot. There’s limited land for grazing on the island, and immune livestock is expensive to buy, so many families don’t have any cows, sheep or pigs. No such problems with poultry. Even the poorest people in the village have at least a few chickens pecking at the dirt around their cottages, and fresh eggs to eat every day.

Still, Tuuri waits for the migratory birds to return. It’s partly because they signal that winter is over, that the days of eating six-month-old leathery potatoes with every meal are nearing their end. Once spring comes, there will be dandelions, nettles and false morels, and later, the first fresh peas, the first new potatoes, the first wild strawberries – the tastes of summer, of sunlight, of warmth.

There hasn’t been a real famine on their island in Tuuri’s lifetime, but she has heard old people speak of the first years after the world changed, when people subsisted on scavenged canned goods until they ran out, and had to supplement the scant flour from their first attempts at growing rye with pine-bark to make it last longer, when parents had to force-feed their children crushed lingonberries, unsweetened, because they had nothing else to keep scurvy at bay. Grandma still gets a pinched look on her face if Tuuri or Lalli ever complain about not liking their food.

Most importantly, though, the return of the birds is a sign that the rest of the world is still there – that somewhere far, far away from their little island, from Saimaa, from the Known World, there are strange lands just waiting to be discovered. If the birds can go there, and even come back, why couldn’t people?

That’s why Tuuri rejoices in every skylark and chaffinch, every wagtail and swallow. She takes pleasure in listening to their song, in watching them build their nests and, later, teach their young to fly. And when the nights grow long and the mornings frosty, she bids them goodbye without bitterness. She can’t go where they are going yet, but her time will come. She’s sure of it.

One day, Tuuri will follow the birds.

(She told her grandmother this, once, on a windy autumn day, with the wild geese honking mournfully as they passed above the lake.  
“Everyone follows the birds, in the end”, Grandma replied.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did manage to finish the second part in the end. Better late than never?

“As birds fly between the Known World and the Silent World, human souls pass from this world to the next”, Grandma intones, the light of the fire casting deep shadows on her wrinkled face. Onni suppresses a shiver, burrowing deeper into his blankets. “And like birds in our world that sometimes get lost on their journey, souls too can have trouble finding their way.” She fixes Onni with a stern gaze. “It’s our job to guide them along.”

***

The light is barely there, just a faint flicker under the surface. It could easily be mistaken for a ripple of the water or a reflection of the stars above them. But Grandma wades towards it without hesitation, and it’s all Onni can do to keep up with her purposeful strides. The water is almost up to his waist here, dragging against his legs on every step and making it harder to see the edges of the stepping stones. Still, Grandma forges ahead without a backward glance, and Onni has no choice but to follow her as fast as he can without splashing, and try not to think about the darkness in the gaps between the stones.

The soul-bird in the water has almost stopped struggling already, its wings weary and waterlogged as it vainly attempts to lift itself out of the sea. It makes no sound as Grandma scoops it up.  
“Just in time”, she comments, peering at the wispy little creature. The light glowing between her gnarled old fingers makes the raised blue veins on the backs of her hands stand out. “Not much strength left. Must’ve been in the water for quite a while. I’m surprised that nothing found it before us.”  
Onni casts a nervous glance at the dark waters surrounding them, but all is still and silent.

“Well, no sense in waiting around”, Grandma says, turning to him. “Here, hold this.” And just like that, she sets the soul-bird into his outstretched hands and turns away, already reciting the first words of a spell-song.

Onni is too distracted by the warm, barely-there weight of the bird in his hands to listen. Soft feathers flutter against his fingers, and he tries to adjust his grip, simultaneously afraid of dropping the bird and of squeezing it too hard. He settles for cradling it against his chest, marveling at the way the bird feels both frighteningly fragile and startlingly alive at the same time. Its heartbeat is faint but rapid, and its eyes are a bright black against feathers that seem to be made out of pure light. It’s the most beautiful thing Onni has ever seen. It also fills his chest with an almost unbearable ache.

He doesn’t realize that Grandma has stopped singing until the shadow of the Swan falls upon them.

The Swan is huge, her wings seeming to stretch across half the sky as she circles above them, feathers bathed in a red glow that has no visible source. The soul-bird begins to struggle in Onni’s hands, and he instinctively tightens his grip.  
“Let go”, Grandma says behind him. “It’s time.”  
The Swan circles closer, flying low, and one scarlet eye catches Onni’s wide-eyed stare. There’s no kindness in the Swan’s glare, no sympathy or mercy. It pierces right through him, cold and emotionless and petrifying.  
“Onni”, Grandma says, her voice growing sharper.  
But Onni’s muscles refuse to move, his hands stiff and frozen with terror. He can see, now, that the Swan’s beak is dark red, too, and glistening wetly. Coated in blood. She tips her wings a little, and lets out a wailing screech that feels like ice going down Onni’s spine.

Then she swoops down.

Onni is still screaming when he wakes up.

***

The next day, Onni’s mother will march, tight-lipped and determined, to Grandma’s cottage. The exact details of the ensuing conversation between Anne-Mari Hotakainen and Ensi Hotakainen will only ever be known to the two of them, but for the next few months, Onni’s lessons in the dreamworld will not take place outside the safety of his own haven. And a year or so after that, Onni’s cousin Lalli will be born with both magic and immunity, and the weight of Grandma’s attention will shift from her eldest grandchild to her youngest. Onni will instead be instructed by the other mages in the village, ones who are less adept at magic than Grandma, but perhaps more skilled at teaching timid young children.

In time, with their guidance, Onni will learn to control his fear (in his dreams, at least, if not in the waking world). He will guide spirits to their rest as his grandmother did before him, and no longer quiver at the sight of the Swan high up in the sky. He will even take a little pride in the equanimity with which he faces her. He will begin to think that he understands death, and that the Swan will never surprise him again.

(Later still, he will watch her lead another bright little soul-bird up into the stars, and learn how very wrong he was.)

Tonight, however, Onni’s mother holds him tightly until the sobs finally cease wracking his body. Even then she stays with him, stroking his hair as he strains and strains to keep his eyes open, terrified of slipping back into sleep and finding the Swan waiting for him.

When he does finally succumb to exhaustion, it’s to the gentle voice of the willow warbler, singing to welcome the morning sun and to chase the fears of the night away.

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this sometime in spring, but didn't get around to writing it until now. I've also got a partially-written second half from Onni's point of view that I'll add if I manage to finish it.
> 
> Don't pick false morels unless you know how to prepare them safely.


End file.
